You Know I'm Not Into That
by CommanderSpork
Summary: Sherlock is back in his Baker Street apartment and a certain someone pays him a visit. Disregard of privacy, normally awkward situations, one-sided flirting and discussions of morally gray games ensue. Light Sheriarty. (Rated M for safety, I personally would think it more T.)


_**Author's log**__: I have honestly no idea if this story makes any sense and whether or not it will make a believable read. See, I have no problems recognizing that the situation is a tad absurd, however since revolves around Sherlock and Moriarty I have a much harder time judging whether or not something like this could occur between them. After all, the both of them are far cry from normal behavior and they have been in rather absurd situations together before. I imagine this has to be post-His Last Vow.  
I am really eager to hear what you think, so __let me know__!  
Whether this is going to be a stand alone, leaving the rest to your imagination, or whether I'm going to continue to entertain you with mine co-depends on zee feedback._

* * *

Sherlock's long fingers swirled his curly locks back as he was rubbing the shampoo in his hair. He was trying to relax under the warm water, eyes closed. Though the sounds surrounding him still tickled the edges of his consciousness. The water clattering down on his body and on the bottom of the tub, some also came down on the tiles as he hadn't properly closed the shower-curtain; they were three distinctly different sounds. There was the bubbling of the liquid over the burner in the kitchen – should probably have turned that off, especially since he didn't care for the experiment it had been part of anymore. Also the rapid ticking of John's nightstand clock was still audible. That bloody thing would drive him insane one day. Once in the middle of the night he had barged into John's bedroom and attempted to throw it out of the window – the ticking had kept him up for two hours, fifty-three minutes and twelve seconds. John had stopped him one moment too soon, and had somehow convinced him that for the night he would put it in between his sweaters in the closet so the sound would be muffled, so that Sherlock could get some sleep and the clock could be preserved. Sherlock had really just wanted to get rid of the thing, but John was attached to it. Something about having inherited it from a dead family member.

Sherlock frowned. What was that? _A new sound_. Footsteps. Breathing. Someone was there. Mrs. Hudson? No, the footfall was too heavy, the owner too certain of itself. John? No, he wouldn't sneak around like that. Someone who didn't belong here. Someone who wanted to conceal his presence, but _not quite_.

"Moriarty," Sherlock spoke and opened his eyes. The visit wasn't entirely unexpected.

"Sherlock!" Moriarty greeted him back cheerily.

"You couldn't have been so foolish as to think you could creep up on me?"

"Of course not," Moriarty purred.

"Mmmpf," Sherlock's deep voice grumbled in his throat. He turned around and washed some soap off his chest. "As you may be able to see, I was taking a shower."

"Do continue," Moriarty shrugged, "I don't mind."

Sherlock turned back around and stared down onto Moriarty's face. He was careless of his nudity. Feeling anything over it at all, would be an _emotional _response. The only reason he even got dressed most of the time was so that there wouldn't be an endless stream of noise coming from people's mouths about how it was inappropriate. He liked people to shut up. It was better for thinking. Oh, and clothes were good for warmth. That was a reason to get dressed too. "Why _are_ you here?"

"Just to chat." Moriarty picked a tiny white feather of his otherwise impeccable suit. He had sat against a pillow that was wearing out, apparently.

"Mmm, no you're not."

"Sure am."

"_No._ When you talk there's always a riddle, a hint, a game, a catch" Sherlock rambled, in his characteristic way where his mouth rattles but the rest of him remains perfectly composed.

Some soap was leaking out of Sherlock's hair, threatening to leak into his eyes. Sherlock didn't notice. Moriarty rolled up his sleeve and reached out to catch it.

"Let me help, dear," Moriarty said as he wiped the soapy bubbles off Sherlock's forehead, down his cheek and then away. His hand landed on Sherlock's shoulder and he squeezed it a little. Sherlock allowed it for a moment, but then stepped away from it. He turned half around and started washing out his hair. When he was done he reached for the conditioner.

"Ah, that's how your hair always looks so shiny and soft," Moriarty hummed.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment while he was taking off his suit jacket, then he went on to rub the conditioner in his hair.

"If you really are here just to be social, then_ leave_. You know I'm not into that. And I have a case I want to get on in a moment."

"Mmm, no you don't," Moriarty imitated Sherlock's earlier words as he carefully laid his folded jacket over the drawn-down lid of the toilet.

Fine," Sherlock admitted. "I wanted to look for a case to get on in a moment."

"I could give you a case: Three dead hookers. Throat's cut. Abdominal mutilations. Internal organs removed. Who did it?"

A frown appeared on Sherlock's face. He squeezed his eyelids together a little for a moment.

"Very funny."

Moriarty reached out to grab Sherlock's shoulder again.

"Let me help," he repeated.

Sherlock's eyes flicked down to the hand, searching for the meaning behind the gesture and words. The hand trailed down over his arm, feeling his muscles. Muscles that had formed during the time he had been fighting crime in the literal sense of the word, trying to destroy the network of the very person whose hand was now trailing down over his arm.

"Help with what," Sherlock asked.

"Oh come on, I know you're not _that _stupid," Moriarty honed.

Sherlock stepped away once more, closed his eyes and began washing out the conditioner. It was the same sequence of events as before. He was trying to create an obvious pattern so that Moriarty might grow bored and leave. If Moriarty wasn't up to anything, he was just as much of a pity annoyance as all the ordinary people with their stupid thoughts and their useless lives and their chitter-chatter. _Horrid_. He listed with anticipation, but didn't hear sounds that indicated Moriarty was leaving.

"I don't need help with that," Sherlock uttered.

"Oh, but you do," Moriarty hummed playfully, before almost spitting out the last word, "_virgin._"

Suddenly, Moriarty was in the tub with him. Sherlock tensed at the realization, but relaxed again as soon as he was aware he was doing it. He didn't want to give Moriarty the satisfaction, he didn't want to take the chances of it fueling him on.

"I don't consider it a problem that needs to be fixed, therefore I don't need help."

"Sherlock, Sherlock," Moriarty began. He traced a line over Sherlock's spine, from his neck downwards. "When I heard about you and Janine, I really thought you would let it go, you know? But Sherlock, you got engaged to her and yet you angstily held out on _doing *it*, _with her. I know it was all fake, but people have sex all the time without even being in a relationship. I really _do_ think you have a problem." Moriarty's fingers had reached the end of Sherlock's spine and almost trailed down further to where Sherlock's body made a curve upward again and his flesh would be soft, but he lifted his hand away instead.

"It's a choice. I'd be capable if I wanted to."

"Well, if it's just a choice," Moriarty began, but took a pause to let out a slow chuckle, "then you should have no problem revoking your decision for me, now, should you?" His hand stroked Sherlock's outer thigh. It trailed upwards and snaked around Sherlock to stroke his lower stomach.

Abruptly Sherlock spun around, grabbed Moriarty by his shoulders and slammed him into the wall.

"Stop. Touching. Me," he practically growled.

It launched a giggle fit in Moriarty. Was he on drugs, Sherlock briefly wondered. He let go of him and Moriarty continued to laugh. Sherlock's eyebrows rose up as he looked Moriarty over. Apparently, Moriarty had undressed but had left his socks and briefs on. Do people normally shower like that? No. No, they don't.

Moriarty took a breath, regained his composure.

"Okay, I have a proposal," he said and reached down to put the plug in the drain. "If you agree to talk it over during a bath, I will stop touching you."

Sherlock stared the shorter man down as if his eyes were about to shoot laser beams that would zap Moriarty out of existence. Moriarty tilted his head to the side and made questioning look, with the addition of a pouty lip. Sherlock nodded once, swiftly, and sat himself down in the tub, drawing his legs up to his body.

"You get to sit at the cold end," Sherlock mumbled, meaning the end where the water coming down from the showerhead didn't provide warmth till the bath was reasonably full. He hadn't entirely meant for Moriarty to hear that, it was the sort of childish demeanor he usually didn't display around the consulting criminal.

Moriarty sat down without complaints.

"Let me just," he began as he was pulling off his socks and dumping on the ground beside the tub, "this." After that he relaxed in the tub, but was still careful not to invade Sherlock's personal space. "I think you and I should play games again, like the good old days."

There was the catch! Sherlock hadn't been wrong, Moriarty would never want to _just_ talk. He sat up straighter, and a twinkle appeared in his eyes.

"When you play games people die," he dismissed nevertheless.

"Not when you're smart enough," Moriarty replied in a sing-song voice.

Sherlock made a face that said 'okay, good point'.

"So what exactly are you suggesting?"

"I create a mystery for you to solve, or maybe you create one for me, perhaps we could try that out some time, and you try to solve it within a certain time limit or something. All just like we used to do, except now the winner gets a prize."

Between his spread legs Moriarty slapped his hands on the water as if drumming the rhythm of a song, creating little splashes. Sherlock stared at it for a moment, running an analysis through his mind, ruling out that it was some kind of code.

A considerable splash of water landed in Sherlock's face.

"PAY ATTENTION!" Moriarty demanded.

Sherlock held his eyes squeezed shut for a few seconds, then rubbed his hand over his face in hopes of wiping away the remaining water so it wouldn't drip in his eyes or mouth.

"What kind of prize?" Sherlock asked.

"Winner gets to control the loser for a pre-decided time based on the difficulty of the case at hand."

"What would be in it for me? Either way it would end in sex. I have no interest in that."

Moriarty's eyebrows shot up.

"I knew there was a kinky bastard hiding under all that cool," he purred, "but Sherlock, a little more creativity? It wouldn't have to be sex, you could also _question_ me. I know secrets Sherlock. Just think of the crimes it could help you solve. And I would have to answer _ever-y-thing _you'd ask about _truthfully. _Of course when I win, I'd probably want sex. You have a _gggrrreat _body."

The wolfish grin on Moriarty's face didn't make Sherlock shiver like it might have made an ordinary person. Sherlock wasn't ordinary. Neither was Moriarty. Ordinary people didn't take baths with their enemies discussing the possibility of playing dangerous games together, because boredom was an ever-present threat to their sanity.

"I've destroyed your crime network. What would there be left for you to tell me about?" Sherlock challenged.

"Nuh-uh-uuh, Sherlylocks," Moriarty teased, "the only way for you to find out is to beat me in the game."

Sherlock remained unmoved. Moriarty's response had been an empty one, all theatrics to distract from the lack of content. It wasn't worthy of a response.

"Aren't you curious?" Moriarty tried in a seductive voice.

Persistence, stubbornness, devotion, and a hint of madness. Characteristics that made Sherlock very good at playing this game.

"Oh, alright!" Moriarty gave in, taking a moment to make a silly face and wobble his head. He stilled and bended forward, his voice low and smooth, with a hint of danger. "See, Sherlock, crime is permanent. Our wicked world spawns new people for the party every day. Bad people are like weeds, you can plug one out of the ground here, and the next day there's another one growing over there." He shrugged, his voice went up and he sounded cheerier, "but you won't hear me complain! Keeps people like you and me in business, keeps us from being _bored_."

"Alright," Sherlock confirmed his participation.

"Really?" Moriarty seemed genuinely surprised. He recovered quickly however. "I'd be off then." He was about to step out of the bath, but he lingered and bowed towards Sherlock. "Kiss to seal the deal?" Sherlock didn't react. "No, didn't think so."

A frown played over Sherlock's face as Moriarty, now standing beside the tub, dropped his briefs.

"What? Can't wear them anymore, they'd get my trousers wet all over. I couldn't possibly show up in public like that, don't you think?" Moriarty explained dryly.

Stretching his legs and lying back, Sherlock relaxed and closed his eyes. He didn't care much about how one was and wasn't supposed to appear in public. If Moriarty thought it would be better not to wear underwear, that was his business.

Sherlock's eyes flew open. He jumped out of the bath.

"John's here!"

"Oh-oh," Moriarty offered, teasingly.

"Be quiet. If John finds out, the deal is off," Sherlock spat at him in an aggressive whisper. He hurried towards the door, mind set on creating a distraction so that Moriarty could slip out of the flat without John knowing. If John would find out Moriarty was here, he would want to know what was up and if he would figure a way to draw it out of Sherlock, he would surely disapprove. Yes, John Watson would definitely disapprove.

"Sherlock?" John's voice called from the living room. "Sherlock, where are you?"

Moriarty's hand wrapped firmly around Sherlock's arm.

"You might wanna wear this, love," Moriarty said, and offered Sherlock a towel.

Momentarily Sherlock considered the idea of _not _ wearing a towel as a strategy (honestly before Moriarty had reminded him he had just forgotten), it would cause a bit of a fuss, but as a result of living together John was no longer as susceptible to Sherlock's drama as he used to be and therefore he may very well just go get Sherlock a robe or a sheet or a towel and refuse to talk to him before he had put it on. Which wouldn't be bad if it weren't for that he might go barge into the bathroom to get a towel – if that was what he would be going for – and _then_ there would be trouble.

So he took the towel from Moriarty, wrapped it around his waist and held it closed with his hand. He gave Moriarty one more look to warn him to keep quiet. Moriarty mimicked locking his mouth and throwing away the key.

"John!" Sherlock greeted cheerily, walking into the living room with his brightest and best fake smile, which honestly was near terrifying. "I'm so glad you're here. There is this case that I _really_ need your help on. Let's go! The game is on and such."

Grabbing John by his arm Sherlock began dragging him to the door to get out of the apartment.

"Ehm, Sherlock, how about some clothes?"

"Clothes?" And for a moment there, the word really didn't compute with Sherlock.

"Yes, before we leave, put on some clothes."

"Clothes. Yes, clothes. I'll go put something on. Be back in a sec. Don't go anywhere and don't touch anything. Very important. I am running an experiment that involves you not touching anything."

As Sherlock sped back into the bathroom, John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock's odd behavior never ceased to surprise him.

In the bathroom Sherlock found Moriarty standing in his shirt and tying his tie back on. Images of Janine walking around dressed in one of Sherlock's shirts which too big for her, just barely covering the curve of her buttocks. He could see how the sight might be appealing to people, but he hadn't felt anything much on account of it himself. Sherlock made quick work of putting on the clothes he had left in the bathroom.

"When we come back here, I expect you to be gone," he told Moriarty.

Moriarty nodded sheepishly and then flashed a charming smile at Sherlock, who hadn't stayed around to appreciate it. Not like he would have had he seen it. He was Sherlock Holmes after all.

"Coming, John?" Sherlock called to his friend, hurrying out of their, correction _his_, apartment. He was hoping John was in an especially dense mood, and hadn't noticed anything being off. On top of that, he needed to quickly come up with a non-existent case.

* * *

_**Author's log (supplemental): **__To the followers of my Kirk/Spock story who may feel a tad betrayed I am publishing this before a new chapter there, I can tell you all that I have been working on that too. It has been taking some extra time because I decided to go over Seal of Trust entirely again, causing me to rewrite parts of it, for continuity concerns about the next chapter. Then this came out._


End file.
